


Statistically Speaking

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Attempted Blow Job, Episodic Memories, Hand Jobs, Homeless Youth, Homeless!Stan, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovered Memories, References to Depression, Sibling Incest, Stancest - Freeform, Trauma, cause im shit at tagging, implied murder of semi sentients, is fucked up and i will fight a bitch ok i will, it's ya boy....shit tagger, mention of prison, not...not the other thing, please ya boy is desperate, tell me if i missed something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 16:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14814746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Statistically speaking, it's unlikely that Stan went through homelessness unscathed.





	Statistically Speaking

When Stan’s memory skips he hunches over his meal, his arms curled protectively around it while he shovels food into his mouth too quick for him to taste it. When Ford or Mabel or Dipper look too long, concerned for the defensive behavior, Stan draws tighter, pulls everything closer until he is nearly licking the food from his plate.

Stan doesn't seem to notice the laps, he just eats with a mechanical anxiety until everything is gone. When nothing is left on his plate he chatters away as if he isn’t watching Mabel push aside a sliver of burnt crust.

“Ya gonna eat that?” He asks. When she shakes her head his plucks it deftly from her plate and pops it into his mouth. “I ever tell you about the time I fought a raccoon for a bagel?”

* * *

“First time I got picked up was Christmas,” Stan says. “Didn't know it was Christmas. What did Ma call it? Ah, I don't remember.” Stan doesn't smoke anymore. His hands and lips are restless and empty without the prop. “The station was a fuckin’ madhouse. Real festive with red and green shit everywhere and lemme tell you, Ford,” Stan chuckles, face wrinkling with nostalgic mirth. “There were so many fuckin Santas and slutty elves. Anyway, I almost slipped ‘em when one crackhead Santa started wailing at me. Spent a couple days in with the drunks and punks. Not real jail but, ya know, not a picnic. It's real fuckin’ stupid but, I remember…” Stan looks at something far away, breathes deep and exhales in uneven bursts at odds with his flat eyes. “Ham. I wanted so bad to tell them... I dunno. ” Stan closes up like a dying bug, pulls his limbs in. “I really didn’t want ham.”

Stan isn't shaking or crying when Ford wraps an arm around him. Stan doesn't seem to care or react at all. It's almost worse; it's almost like Ford is holding the hollow meat of his brother again.

After a moment Stan shoves Ford away with a scoff.

“Don't get all mopey, Sixer. You didn't even ask which one I was.” Ford frowns at his brother. “Santa or elf? Come on, take a guess.”

“We’re jewish.” Ford says, knows it never mattered to either of them but it makes Stan laugh.

“Shit,” Stan curses. “Coulda been a dreidel!” Stan mutters and kicks at the dirt. “Might actually a gotten lucky.”

“So, uh,” Ford clears his throat before Stan gets into a mood. “Which one?”

“Hm?” Stan looks up at Ford and grins. “Oh, heh. The best one: a Stanta.” Ford groans.

* * *

Stan doesn’t like people walking behind him, angles his back to the wall when he’s standing or sitting.

“Gah! Sweetie, don’t sneak up on your grunkle like that!” Stan grabs his chest, hand fisting into the stained undershirt he prefers. He grits a strained, almost manic smile at his grand-niece as she scales the old yellow armchair.

“Sorry, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel apologizes and immediately fusses over him, worry wrinkling her young brow. She doesn’t notice Stan winding tighter and tighter as she squishes his face and looks into his eyes. “You should probably lay off the Mabel juice,” she scolds when her examination is done. “Your poor grunkle heart can’t handle it.” She pats his arm consolingly.

“Yeah, yeah, never touch the stuff,” Stan swats her away. “Go play with fire, ya little gremlin.” Mabel blows a raspberry at him before reminding him to look after his health. When she’s gone, Stan shoves his hands in a hidden pocket of his suit jacket.

Ford, later finds Stan nursing a bottle in their shared room, eyes distant and red. He’s clearly drunk when he doesn’t scramble to hide the bottle or the thing glinting around his fingers.

“Stanley,” Ford chides. Stan grumbles but surrenders the bottle easily. His fists curl around the empty space it leaves.

“Just tryin’ to relax,” he mutters as he tightens his fists further. “Ya lock the door?”

“You shouldn’t do that with the kids around,” Ford says as he carefully picks up Stan’s fist, runs his fingers over the warm metal that curves over each proximal phalanges. Stan nods, watches Ford’s hands.

“You lock the door, though?” Stan’s fingers twitch when Ford moves to smooths his thumb over Stan’s knuckles. It’s impossible to hold Stan’s hand the way Ford wants to, can’t compete with the rigidity of the palm grip. Ford sighs.

“Yes,” he says and lets Stan’s hand fall into his lap.

Ford wonders when Stan traded in his bright red boxing gloves for brass knuckles.

* * *

“Trading favors,” Stan smirks when he shoves a hand down Ford’s pants, fingers wiggling comically through the slot of Ford's boxers to tease him.

“Could just do the dishes,” Ford leans against the counter, bites his lip as Stan abandons comedy for convenience and slips a hand under Ford's waistband instead.

“You complaining?” Stan frowns at the uneven drag of his hand. The hand currently not getting familiar with his dick palms Ford’s balls through his jeans as Stan pulls his hand out to spit on it.

“Charming,” Ford grunts when Stan starts up again, the slide a little smoother but still juvenile and tacky. “If you could wait two seconds--Christ.” Stan presses just under the ridge of Ford’s dick head in a toe-curling tease. “The bed is right there.” Stan ignores Ford, tugging Ford’s pants lower until the hand that isn’t jacking him wiggles into Ford’s boxers to resume is groping and fondling against bare skin.

“Come on, big guy.” He murmurs as he focuses on his task, unnervingly mechanical.

“Stan,” Ford puts a hand against Stan’s shoulder and pushes gently.

“Cum for me,” Stan doesn’t respond to Ford, just squeezes, both hands working harder, thick finger pressing in the space behind Ford’s balls. Ford groans and Stan smirks at him. “I know you want to, you’re so hard.”

“Stanley,” Ford watches Stan’s brows pinch together, smirks falling into a frustrated frown.

“What,” Stan keeps moving. It’s difficult when Ford wraps a hand gently around Stan’s wrist, abdominal muscles shuddering with stimulation. “Want more?” Stan licks his lips and glances down at his hands.

“What’s wrong?” It feels strange to have this conversation with Stan’s fingers twitching against his softening cock, a tangle of anxiety gathering in Ford's gut in place of arousal. He pulls gently at Stan’s wrist again, unwilling to use force when his brother is radiating unstable tension. Stan seems to understand, finally pulling his hands out of Ford’s pants and settling them on Ford’s hips instead.

“I usually charge extra for this, but,” Stan licks his lips and glances coyly at Ford through his lashes, “that’s was the best meal I’ve had in a while.” It’s a strange thing to say when the canned beans and fish were almost the same thing they’d had a few days ago and hardly anything special at all. “Damn knees,” Stan mutters and begins to kneel.

“Stop,” Ford pushes Stan away. Stan stumbling backward a step with a curse.

“Damn, the hell?” Stan says with irritation as if Ford is being unreasonable. “Somethin’ wrong? Want somethin’ else?”

“I,” Ford clears his throat, hadn't realized it had gotten so dry as he swallows. “I’m confused.”

“Come on, it’s not that complicated. Just a blow job or something.” Stan sighs, steps back into Ford’s space and Ford realizes that the counter he had been supporting himself with earlier is now letting Stan block his escape.

“I’m not interested right now,” Ford says, braces a hand on Stan’s shoulder, prepared to be forceful if he has to be.

“Come on, baby,” Stan leans into Ford’s space, bracketing Ford in with his arms and Ford thinks for a moment they might kiss. But Stan goes right to Ford’s neck, under his ear. “You been so nice to me, let me be nice, too.” Stan breath is hot and wet and Ford can feel it shudder down his spine like a snake.

“Stop.” Ford shoves Stan away, making him stumble and almost fall. Ford hurriedly tucks himself back into his pants and avoids looking at his brother.

“Whatever.” Stan snaps, “just wanted to do somethin’ nice for ya.” Stan’s face and ears are red as he rubs at his mouth. He’s tense again, chews at his mouth, fingers flitting to his face with the phantom memory of a cigarette.

“Well, I’m not in the mood,” Ford says and rubs at his neck, just under his ear.

“Don’t say I owe you or nothin’,” Stan growls and turns away to stop on deck. Ford shivers again and somehow feels dirty.

* * *

Ford feels helpless in the face of Stan’s strange behavior, frustrated with just knowing enough to suspect but not enough to be sure. He knows Stan was homeless and he recognizes the symptoms. Of course, he does, Ford was a transient, himself and had been in his fair share of difficult situations. But some of Stan’s mannerisms and quirks Ford doesn’t recognize and that both frustrates and frightens him.

It isn’t difficult to figure out the laptop or the Google. It’s more difficult to find the information he wants. When he does find it he doesn't want it.

It's been years since he's thought about his brother as a child. God, Stan had seemed like an adult then, they both had. His brother had a car, a boat, charisma, and friends. He was childish, yes. Naive, even, but Stan had been an adult, seventeen going on eighteen. It’s alarming to find the articles and statistics lumping his brother in with the “homeless youth,” in with starving and abused children huddled in doorways and crowding shelters with ugly cots packed like sardines from one cinder block wall to the other.

Ford pulls out the careworn picture he keeps close to his heart, looks at the smiling, carefree children clambering on a wreck of wood. He tries to imagine his brother, older but still neon bright as one of these vagrants. It’s impossible.

No, at seventeen Stan had been an adult, like Ford. Of course, it was hard being homeless, hell he'd been without a dimension but he’d been fine. Stan said he’d been fine. Besides, there were far worse things that could have happened to a homeless seventeen-year-old.

Ford just had to convince himself.

The more he reads the harder it gets

 

“....living in abandoned buildings, with friends, or strangers…”

Ford remembers seeing Stan with that girl from school. What had her name been? He hadn't seemed homeless then. He remembers seeing Stan dancing in the juke joint, remembers seething at how happy and carefree he’d seemed.

 

“Youth age 12 to 17 are more at risk of homelessness than adults.”

Ford squints at the accusing bullet point. Twelve? The twins were that age, weren’t they? Ford has to look at the picture of his brother and himself a lifetime ago and has to wonder what kind of family would let that happen.

 

“75 percent percent of homeless or runaway youth have dropped out or will drop out of school.”

Ford never saw Stan back in school. He had seen Stan combing the beach for riches until he didn’t see Stan anymore. He had assumed that was because Stan had sailed away to make his fortune; got a job smooth talking and swindling.

Ford wonders if Stan ever finished school at all. Wonders how he managed to fix the portal at all.

 

“Greater risk of severe anxiety and depression, suicide, poor health and nutrition, and low self-esteem.”

Ford can’t imagine rambunctious, shameless Stan as anything less than happy. Stan could stand to lose weight, sure, and he didn’t have a tooth to his name. And his back needed extra care. His hearing required an aid but all of those things weren’t unusual for men their age. Dipper mentioned pills once, as well, and Ford wonders what those are for.

 

“Increased likelihood of exchanging sex for food, clothing, and shelter ( also known as "survival sex") or dealing drugs to meet basic needs.”

Ford closes the laptop with a forceful click, tries to calm his racing heart. It’s too easy to imagine the scene in the galley playing out with a younger, baby-faced Stan. Ford chokes over a breath as it seems to hit him physically in the chest that Stan had been a child.

* * *

“Stanley,” Ford pauses.

“Hm?” Stan lacks finesse as he guts the fish. Ford thinks rockfish tastes muddy but Stan’s assured him that he has a plan to make it “fuckin’ delicious now shut up”.

“You,” Ford stops. “When you were,” Ford frowns, tries to get the words to arrange themselves into something that makes sense.

“Spit it out, Pointdexter.” Stan swipes the red and black viscera into a bowl; they’ll use it as chum later.

“What happened?” Ford folds his hands on the table, smooths one thumb over the other. “After dad…” Ford looks down at the table, follows the smear of dark and light tree rings.

“Doesn't matter,” Stan shrugs and frowns at a piece of gut that is sticking to his hand. He shakes his hand to dislodge it and both he and Ford watch it fling to a floor.

“Yes, it does,” Ford watches Stan turn back to the fish.

“Past is the past, Ford.” Stan shrugs.

“Were you homeless, Stan?” Ford asks, voice soft as he forces himself to watch the hardening line of Stan’s shoulders.

“I had the car,” Stan says after a heavy silence. “What about you, Ford?” Stan puts the knife and the fish down. His hands are red and brown with blood. “After I, ya know.” Stan picks a scale off his hand and flicks it to the floor in what it a growing mess.

“It was difficult,” Ford admitted. “But it was never terrible.” Ford pauses to swallow. “But I was an adult.”

“Sure ya were.”

“Stan,” Ford gives his brother a withering glance. Stan snorts.

“What’s with the third degree anyway?” Stan turns back to the fish with a fond shake of his head.

“Well,” Ford clears his throat. “I was thinking--”

“Imagine that.” Stan chimes in.

“Stanley, would you listen!” Ford snaps. Stan looks over his shoulder, between unimpressed and annoyed. He quirks an eyebrow at his brother until Ford huffs. “I’m...worried.” He says at last. He watches Stan’s face twist up to one side.

“The hell you got to be worried about?” Stan puts down the fish, the knife, grabs up a towel--one of Mabel’s and patterned with sailboats. “It the kids?” Stan straightens, suddenly tense with worry.

“No, no,” Ford waves his hands as if he can banish the thought from the air like an oder. “No, I just. You were okay, weren’t you?” Ford swallows, watches Stan concern shift to something fond.

“Geez, Ford, it’s been years. I was fine,” Stan chuckles and shakes his head. “The things I got up to,” Ford frowns. “Now go do yer nerd shit, huh? Yer distractin’.” Ford scowls at the table but leaves. Stan whistles a merry tune as he goes.

* * *

The fish tastes muddy but it's better than Ford expects and Stan won’t stop preening until Ford shooes him from the kitchen to wash dishes. Ford rolls up his sweater sleeves and falls into the rhythm of washing the dishes, tries to channel his frustrations into the blacked bottom of the frying pan, scrubbing furiously and staining his nails brown with filthy dishwater. All it does is serve to frustrate him further, like Stan, so obviously lying and insulting Ford’s intelligence. As if he hasn’t relived the terrible things that happened to him, as if Ford doesn’t have proof.

Ford growls at the stubborn, burnt batter and hates rockfish for being muddy, hates this brush for being so useless, and hates Stan for being so stubborn; for not trusting Ford as much as Ford trusts him.

Ford frowns at that, looks at the sink and slows his hands. He rinses the brown water away to reveal piebald patches of stainless steel. He puts the pan in the sink to soak and quickly washes the rest of the dishes, setting them to dry on the metal rack by the sink. He dries his wrinkled fingers and thinks.

Ford makes his way on the deck where Stan is lounging against the railing, watching the horizon. Ford takes a moment to watch his brother, the crinkling around his eyes and laugh lines creasing his face. He looks handsome and careless, here on the boat, almost like those boys a lifetime ago.

Stan hears him coming by the heavy sigh and the creaking of the wooden deck. He looks over his broad, hunched shoulders, brow quirked but smiling.

“Problem?” He asks. Ford chuckles.

“Many,” he says as he leans next to Stan. It's not quite sunset, the sky is in that awkward pastel phase but it's still nice to watch the washed out waves rise and fall. “Are you alright?” Ford looks at his brother earnestly, hand reaching out but not connecting. Stan’s face twists to the left in a frown as he scoffs.

“Why wouldn't I be?” He asks, eyes already narrowing in suspicion as he takes Ford in. “You still worried about back then?” Stan’s mouth has narrowed and thinned. He leans away from Ford as if he can escape the conversation if he puts enough distance between them. Ford clears his throat.

“Well,” he says, “actually.” Stan grunts. “I just want to talk,” Ford tries, hopes to cajole Stan into just a few words.

Stan shoves away from the railing with a disgusted snort. “No,” he turns to disappear below again. “Nope.”

“Stan, wait!” Ford follows his brother below deck, back into the galley. “Really, just let me explain.”

Stan is pulling a bottle of clear liquid from the lower cabinet. He doesn't turn around when he hears Ford stumble into the galley.

“Huh,” Stan rocks the bottle from one side to the other, watching the liquor swirl. “Thought we had more,” he says, doesn't see Ford wince away from the implied accusation.

“Stanley,” Ford stops when Stan turns around looking furious but just so old and defeated.

“‘Drive me to drink,’” he says, “Ma used to say that, didn't she? ‘You drive me to drink.’” His smile is sideways and bitter when he slides into the chair he vacated earlier after dinner. “All these damn questions.” Ford grimaces, looks away from Stan’s eyes.

“I just want to talk,” Ford shrugs and knows it's a useless thing to say when Stan scowls.

“Yer wastin’ yer time,” Stan drawls, swings the bottle and the liquid splashes quietly from one side to the other. Ford takes a careful seat across from his brother.

“Time talking to you can’t be wasted,” he says honestly, laying one palm up on the table.

“Shit,” Stan groans. “Yer killin’ me, Poindexter.” Stan sips from the bottle again, let’s his free hand rest near Ford’s. Not touching but close enough to let their pinkies brush. “All yer concern and yer sappy shit.” He pushes the bottle to Ford with a tense but genuine smile. Ford takes it one handed and considers it.

“When I,” Ford stops and suddenly takes a long pull from the bottle. It’s bitter, astringent, and cheap vodka. Stan whistles.

“That bad?” When Ford nearly slams the bottle to the table he feels Stan gently pull it out of his grasp. Not away, just not immediate. Ford is both insulted and grateful.

“I’m sorry,” Ford blurts, flips his hand to grab Stan’s, catches Stan’s startled eyes. “I really.”

“Hey, Ford,” Stan pats Ford’s hand, for a moment Ford’s hand is sandwiched between both of Stan’s dry, rough hands. “It’s okay. Whatever it is.” Ford shakes his head.

“The probability of that,” Ford starts before shaking his head again. “You were never okay, were you? Whenever Ma told us you were okay, you were--” Ford looks up at his brother, feels his glasses slide down his nose but doesn’t bother to correct them. Stan’s frowning at him.

“Still, about the past? Come on, just let it go,” Stan pulls back, takes his hands with him and Ford feels cold and more lonely that he should with his brother just a few feet from him.

“I can’t,” Ford says. “I can’t let it go when it still,” Ford stops to swallow, to watch Stan’s eyes narrow further and his mouth thin. “Just talk to me,” Ford says quietly, almost pleading. Stan’s face shutters, closes up and shuts Ford out.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Stan says darkly, one hand wrapping around the bottle tightly. Ford’s brows fall and pinch over his eyes.

“Don’t lie to me, Stanley,” Ford warns, knows it’s the wrong move when Stan squares his jaw and leans closer.

“Oh, fuck off,” Stan snaps. “Don’t hear you draggin’ your skeletons out to dance.”

Ford's hands curl into fists on the tabletop, barely restraining himself from jumping over the table and decking his brother in the face because, just this once, Stan is right.

Instead, Ford grabs the bottle from Stan's grasp. He doesn't let go at first and some of the liquor splashes over their hands.

“Fucker,” Stan sucks his fingers into his mouth as if trying to save everything that spilled. Ford takes the chance to gulp a burning mouthful of vodka, grimacing.

“I killed an entire village of Xanthans,” Ford starts. Stan pauses to regard Ford, slowly pulls his fingers from his mouth. Ford rushes on before his brain can catch up to his mouth. “They were dumb as rocks and barely sentient. They kept attacking me no matter what I did.” Ford gulps, his head feels light and buzzing as if a swarm has taken up residence in his skull and is trying to lift his head right off his shoulders. “There were maybe ten of them in one small hut,” he takes another swig. “I was hungry. I was so hungry, Stan.” Ford risks looking at his brother, steeled for disgust or rage, instead, he sees Stan nod, jaw clenched as he swallows. When Stan says nothing Ford continues. “It...it was like killing dogs. I told myself it's no different than killing a dog, but.” Ford takes a shaky breath, drinks to cover how much he wants to cry, how much pulling that horrible memory out of the dirt physically hurts.

“Ford,” Stan sounds strained like he also wants to cry. Ford can't look at him.

“They were clean,” Ford says once he can breathe evenly again. “No one--it didn't hurt.” He says. He stares at his hands where they're wrapped around the bottle, watches the bottle blur and blinks back the tears and tries not to remember watching his gun reflected back at him by large, black eyes that watered, too.

“That’s fucked up,” Stan says at last. Ford cringes, doesn’t know what to expect, just clings to the bottle and suffers shame and fear tumbling over themselves in his head. Finally, Stan says: “It’s definitely a vodka night.” Ford looks up in surprise as Stan tugs the bottle away roughly.

“Stan?” Ford flinches when Stan glares at him.

“Shut up,” Stan snarls and Ford thinks that this is where it all ends. He shouldn’t have pushed, he shouldn’t have tried to open old wounds, should have let sleeping dogs lie. “Looks like we’re talkin',” Stan mutters and gulps a few swallows of the vodka before coughing a fit. When he can breathe again he swears to himself. “I fucked my way through prison,” he says. “Mullet. They liked the mullet.”

“Stan,” Ford says, barely louder than a whisper.

“I said, shut up.” Stan clears his throat. “It ain’t like you, but. I did it. That.” Stan’s face does something complicated. “God, it was years ago, Ford. Fuck, I didn’t even remember until,” Stan stops, confusion obvious in the way his face screws up. “Why do I remember that?” He looks at the bottle like it has the answers. “Remember I ousted this kid. Poor guy got chewed up,” Stan scratches at the label, pulls a curling strand of paper away. Stan rolls the paper between his fingers until it’s a tight ball. “I didn't remember.”

“I’m sorry.” Ford offers. Stan snorts, flicks the tight ball of paper at him.

“Can it, Pointdexter.” Stan watches the vodka roll around in the glass, lifts the bottle in a sardonic salute. “Not like I was a good guy either.”

“Stan, that’s not--” Stan rolls his eyes and leans back.

“I was a bad kid, Ford,” Stan says. “A knucklehead goin’ nowhere. Pops was doin’ us all a favor--”

“Don’t.” Ford feels his gut drop, his heart with it. It hurts. “That's not true.”

“Shut your trap. I'm stupid but I ain't that stupid.” Stan's knuckles whiten around the bottle before he brings it to his lips. It clicks hard against his teeth.

“You're not,” Ford stops, tries again: “You're not stupid.” Stan snorts against the mouth of the bottle. Ford scrubs a hand through his hair, nails dragging roughly. “You fixed the portal, Stan, that's not.” Ford huffs. “You're not stupid.” Ford looks hopefully at his brother. Stan is scowling at the table, brows pinched like he's in pain.

“Don't,” he says gruffly. “It's no good.” Stan sighs heavily before smiling flatly at Ford. “What's the point, huh?” Stan rolls his shoulders back so that he's sitting straight and for a moment he's eye level with Ford. His eyes are sharp like glass; they’re angry and hurt and tired. Then he slouches forward again. “Leave it,” Stan mutters. “It's in the past.” Ford watches his brother, reaches out and takes the vodka. Stan gives him a half-hearted glare, his fingers barely resist.

“The past,” Ford echos, looks thoughtfully at the vodka bottle.

“Yeah, past, so. Whatever,” Stan shrugs, licks his lips. He picks at the peeling skin around his fingernails. Ford considers the table top, the hatch-mark of the rings that ripple away from an unseen center.

“It wasn’t fair,” Ford says and slowly lifts his eyes to look at Stan. His brother huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Lots of things ain’t fair,” Stan smirks darkly. “I done a lot that ain’t fair.” Stan’s smirk drops into a thoughtful frown. “S'not like I haven't done the same.” Stan starts to pick at the hem of his shirt, scratches his hand. Ford makes an inquisitive sound and gouges a shallow line in the wood.

“You’re not--”

“Toughed Dipper up. Tough love, Ford,” Stan grabs the bottle from Ford. “You’re not even using this.”

“What do you mean?” Ford places both hands flat on the table. One of his four middle fingers moves over a wood dark ring, feels the minute valleys and peaks.

“He said it wasn’t fair,” Stan shrugs and drinks. Ford watches his throat work and distantly notes the thickening stubble there. “I was hard on him, Ford. A real,” Stan shakes his head with a huff. “Had to teach him to fight back.” Ford frowns at his brother, his fingers begin to curl loosely until he clasps his hands together.

“It’s not the same,” Ford starts before Stan groans loudly and thumps the bottle loudly to the table.

“Jesus, we know!” Stan shouts, drags his thick fingers roughly through his pale hair. “Thank fuck it’s not the same. No kid should have to go through that shit.” Stan’s face twists into a snarl before he takes another pull of vodka.

“I’m sorry,” Ford says weakly.

“Yeah, me too, Ford,” Stan mutters and takes another pull. His hands are shaking and his eyes are red and wet when they open to stare at the ceiling.

“I just want you to be happy. You,” Ford hiccups suddenly, making both Stan and himself jump.

“Alright, lightweight, time to--”

“I’m not drunk!” Stan pauses where he’s pushing himself to stand.

“Well, I am,” he says.

“Stan,” Ford stands, hand reaching out to grab at Stan, catching a wrist. Stan stiffens, looks at Ford’s hand around his wrist and then slowly at Ford.

“Ford,” he warns, sets the bottle pointedly on the table. “Let me go.”

“I just want you to be happy,” Ford whispers, his throat feels too thick to make a louder noise without cracking.

“I am happy,” Stan sighs and sidles over to Ford enough to put a hand on his shoulder. Ford shakes his head. “Well, I was happier before you started dragging out ancient history,” Stan amends and gives Ford a gentle shake.

“We have to talk,” Ford says, looks at Stan.

“Sure, Sixer,” Stan releases Ford’s shoulder to punch it a little harder than he needs to.

“Stan,” Ford tries but Stan shakes his head again.

“I get it, Ford, you’re messed up about this and,” Stan swallows thickly. “Maybe I am, too.” Ford sniffs loudly, rubs one sleeve roughly across his face. Stan tugs his captured wrist and Ford falls into a too-warm, too-tight hug. “I’m happy, Ford, I promise.” Ford feels Stan’s large nose burrow into his hair. Ford wraps his arms around Stan’s waist, clutches at the small of his back.

“I’m sorry,” Ford whispers again. He feels the way Stan’s chest expands with a sigh. “I really am.” Stan shushes him, pulls back from the hug, a broad palm pressing into Ford’s chest.

“Save it,” he says. “You got plenty to be sorry for,” Stan smirks. “This ain’t one of them. Though,” Stan frowns, taps his chin. “If you’re really sorry you can do my chores.” Ford coughs in surprise and can’t help the startled, hoarse laugh.

“You’re cleaning the deck,” Ford says, smiling weakly back.

“No, you’re cleaning the deck because you’re a sad sack.” When Stan tries to pull away, Ford surges in to hug him tighter.

“You’re an ass,” Ford says. Stan hugs him back.

“You love this ass,” Ford yelps when Stan’s hand smacks his ass.

“Jesus!” Stan laughs and curls an arm around Ford’s neck and swings them both around, grinding his knuckles into Ford’s hair.

“Seriously?” Ford jabs Stan’s sensitive sides until he’s forced to let Ford go. Stan snorts, eyes crinkling.

“You started it,” he says, sticks out his tongue and dances away from Ford’s grasp. He trips over his own feet and lands on his ass. “Fuck!”

“Lightweight,” Ford teases, reaches down to help his brother up. Stan accepts the help with a grumble.

“Better kiss it better,” he mutters. Ford slides an arm around Stan’s waist. To support him.

“Hm,” Ford gropes Stan’s ass again. It’s only fair. “Doesn’t seem broken,” Ford says, clinically. “Might need to check,” Stan says. “Could be internal.” Ford rolls his eyes, face reddening.

“Don’t push your luck,” Ford guides them toward the bunkroom. “You have an early morning. The deck has to be clean before the crew gets up.” Stan presses his face into Ford’s neck, his hair and chuckles softly.

“Oh, the crew will be sleeping in,” Ford can feel the leer against his skin. “In fact, I have on good authority that the crew won’t be out of bed for a while.”

“And whose authority is that?” Ford asks drily.

“My dick."

**Author's Note:**

> Statistics taken from: http://www.ncsl.org/research/human-services/homeless-and-runaway-youth.aspx


End file.
